


at least this one wasn't a catholic

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Series: i won't go quietly into the night [8]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Black Canary (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She really should have known, as soon as the words “one last patient” left her mouth, that trouble was headed her way–trouble in the form of a white person with a hero complex covered in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at least this one wasn't a catholic

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily based off of the current Black Canary title, and Claire Temple either never quit the hospital, or she started working at a new one
> 
> Part of my "fuck the CW, let's write about Laurel Lance being alive and happy and kissing ladies" initiative

“Long week,” Claire says, when Traci, the girl with a masterful resting bitch face who works the desk more often than not, tells her she looks like shit.

“Long life,” Traci mutters, and Claire snorts, nodding her agreement. “Still, your week is almost over; got, what, twenty minutes left on your shift and then you’re ‘off’ tomorrow?”

“‘Off,’“ Claire agrees, with finger quotes and the sarcastic tone to match. There are too many heroes, “heroes,” and “concerned citizens” with her home address for her to get a proper day off- or a proper night’s sleep- anymore. “One last patient, and then it’s netflix, half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and sweatpants for me.”

“God bless,” Traci says, idly, as Claire throws a wave back over her shoulder and strolls off.

She really should have known, as soon as the words “one last patient” left her mouth, that trouble was headed her way–trouble in the form of a white person with a hero complex covered in blood.

(At least this one wasn’t a Catholic.)

“All I’m saying,” the blonde on the hospital bed says to her unimpressed companion, picking a strand of fishnet out of a cut on her knee, “is that they deserved it. Those two girls told them ‘no’ repeatedly but they weren’t leaving them alone. I had to step in before–”

“Commendable,” Claire cuts in, flipping open the chart to find a name- “DD” is all it says- and then dropping into the chair next to the bed. “How much damage did you do to them?”

DD smirks, stretches in a way that pulls her tank top up just a bit. “Significantly more damage than they did to me,” she tells Claire, and jerks her head at the wall behind her. “They’re in the next room over, if you want to take a look.”

“I think I’ll skip it.” Claire’s gloves _snap_ when she tugs them on, smile tired but just the slightest bit genuine. “How badly did they damage you?”

“Just the cut and some bruised knuckles.” DD jerks her head at her friend, rolls her eyes. “I didn’t even want to come, but someone insisted.”

“Just check her vocal cords and make sure she didn’t manage to inexplicably mess them up,” the friend says, arms crossed over their chest and a distasteful expression on their face. “And then I’m out of here.”

Maybe not a friend, then. Claire raises an eyebrow, swabbing at the cut, and DD and the “friend” glare at each other. “Vocal cords?” she finally asks, just to fill the silence.

“Ever heard of _Black Canary_?” DD asks, and a dozen headlines about trashed venues and mysterious frontwomen flicker through Claire’s mind.

“Ah,” she says, turns around to rifle through a drawer for gauze. “This makes, what, five gigs in a row?”

“It’s not my fault,” DD answers immediately, with the “friend” parroting it sarcastically in unison.

Claire’s other eyebrow rises, and a muscle in DD’s jaw twitches as the two return to glaring at each other. Tour buses, Claire suspects, are very small spaces that only continue to get smaller. She holds down the gauze with one hand, reaches for the medical tape with the other, and asks, casually, “You do anything that could damage your vocal cords, DD?”

“Not a thing,” DD responds, as primly as possible for a woman in a leather jacket with fishnet stockings under her shorts.

Claire glances over at the “friend.” “You can probably go ahead and go, then.”

DD snickers, and the “friend” huffs as they straighten away from the wall. “Hope you have money for a taxi,” they mutter, and then they’re gone.

“That was smooth,” DD says, flashing a thousand-watt, rock-star smile. “And you can call me Dinah, if you’d like.”

Claire glances at the clock as she slides her gloves off. (Ten minutes left on her shift.) She rolls her shoulders, leaning back in the chair with a sigh. “Pretty sure they just wanted the excuse to leave, anyway. Don’t seem to like you much.”

DD shrugs, picks at the frayed edge of her fishnets. “She has her reasons.”

“It happens.” Claire shrugs back, taps her fingers along the edge of the chair.  “I’ve only got ten minutes left in my shift; mind if I waste them here?”

“That’s some dedication to the job, there,” Dinah teases, spins on the bed to drop her feet to the floor–her combat boots click on the linoleum, and Claire wonders how much of the outfit is her normal style, how much is her stage persona. (She can guess, when it comes to the eye makeup, but you really never know.)

“You’re one to talk,” Claire points out. “You seem a little more interested in brawling than singing.”

“Yeah, well.” Dinah huffs. “That’s a long story, too. Kind of the same story, actually.”

“You used to run around with a codename and a costume, huh?” Claire asks, and Dinah’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Claire shrugs. “I can recognize the type. The uh…” she makes horns with her fingers. “Friend of mine.”

“I like his style,” Dinah says, and she’s grinning again. Claire is far too tired for that grin.

“You would,” she sighs, glances at the clock again. Eight minutes left on her shift. She closes her eyes, scrunches up her nose. “Oh, hell, good enough.” She heaves herself to her feet, and Dinah rises, too, wincing slightly at putting pressure on her leg.

“I’ll walk you out,” she says.

Claire shoves her hands in the pockets of her scrubs, rocks onto the balls of her feet and then back onto her heels. “I’m off tomorrow,” she says. Offers. “I’ll be sleeping until noon, at least, but if the tour bus hasn’t pulled out before then, you should stop by.”

“You propositioning me?” Dinah smirks.

Claire shrugs, leads the way out of the room. “Maybe I can recognize the type because I’ve got a thing for it.”

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up at lisasneeze.tumblr.com with any and all laurel-centric femslash prompts


End file.
